Wotd slur

SlurWhen I played tuba in my high school orchestra, the notes blended together smoothly, velvetly. We were one voice and our audience was the target. 

The books I’ve read, both comics and straight literature, contained millions of words in various formats. I’ve lived my life studying the written page, and it all breaks down to 26 letters in various combinations. You’d think by now we’d have more letters at least. 

I’ve spoken billions upon billions of words, mostly pronounced correctly, mostly in English, some were from the page and some from my imagination.

I’ve dreamed amongst the best of them, fantasy and nightmares beyond reason or explaination. But can I tell you what I dreamed of last night, not a chance.

People have drifted into and out of my life on a daily basis, recalling their names if a gun was put to my head would lead to a quick death.

It seems to me this is all based on memory, and mine is faulty. Regurgitation of facts, poems, notes and melodies, nomenclature and fiction seems to be a poor way to truly live. 

I have 6300 pictures and videos of my daughters in hopes to provide them with a fixed point of remembrance, as they learn to dechiper language, music, art and life. 


Wotd rythmic

Today’s challenge is rythmic

I’m standing in the rain on a bridge crossing I95 facing south

The whoosh of the cars is infrequent as it is 3am on a Sunday

Sometimes it is long as they travel down the far right lane hitting the oh shit rumble strips with their tires thuda thuda thuda for a few seconds until they wake from their soft slumber and jerk the car to the left instinctually

Other times it reminds me of dragonflies whisping by, hurtling their metal bodies into the dark after a failed attempt at romance in the big city, they are trying g to escape the walk of shame or the knowing looks from strangers who always seem to know you came to quick or not at all

The late night CSX trains can be heard between the early morning wolfpack commuters, the churning struggle to get all that cargo to DC or farther up the coast. The engines resigned to the fact that their eternity is spent on two rails and their future is not their own. Waves of despairation echo off the trees, bogs, hills and shopping centers

The parking lot sulfur orange amber flood lights provide the backing bass hum that ties it all together when there are no other noises. Even in the winter chill, as long as that light is on the world is a tenth of a degree warmer, I feel safer as now I can see potential evil and good

My late night symphony is complete, I applaud it and am an unwilling patron of this art. My season pass does not include a seat near the orchestra, I lean over the railing with my tin encased coffee mug, pinging off anything metal and making a medium high pitched resonate tone, maybe mezzo soprano.

Bravo civil planning bravo